Waiting
by REDskies
Summary: Every second Wednesday of every even month, Prussia waits. No explicit sexual content, only mentions. That, and Prussia's swearing.


**Title:** Waiting  
**Rating:** NC-15 (references to sex, nothing explicit)  
**Genre:** Angsty comfort?  
**Characters/Pairings:** Prussia, Hungary, mentions of Austria || Prussia/Hungary  
**Summary:** Every second Wednesday of every even month, Prussia waits.  
**Words:** 1100?  
**Notes:** Loosely inspired by She Will Be Loved by Maroon 5.

"Fucking rain," Prussia thought to himself, shivering under the thin fabric which did nothing to protect him from the vicious downpour, berating himself for not bringing along an umbrella, _again_. He had no idea why, but it always seemed to rain, so there was no excuse for his lack of wisdom. Every second Wednesday of the month, Someone Up There decided that it would have to be a rainy day. _Not that I particularly mind_, he thought to himself.

There was a pause in his thoughts.

_Oh fuck it, of course I mind. I come here, driving endless miles to this particular town every second Wednesday of every even month, and every single time it rains and soaks me right down to my awesome bones._

It was enough to get anyone irritated, much less someone like Gilbert. But right then, he could see headlights flash around the corner, and a forest-green car coming into sight. It was the same thing, every time, and in that one moment, the trip, the wetness, the effort it took to get out of his own damn house which was currently littered with guards; something told him that _screw it_, even if it had been fucking _hailing_, he'd still come here.

--

Sometimes they went back to his house. Sometimes they stayed in that town, in the only inn it had. Sometimes they stayed in one of their cars.

They never went back to any of her houses. Prussia preferred not to think about the reason.

_Even without thinking about it, the reason's already fucking obvious-- Ha ha, "fucking obvious". A Pun!_ Thoughts were sarcastic and self-destructive, but wasn't everything nowadays? There always seemed to be a lot of other self-destructive thoughts on the brink of making themselves known, but he tried his best to ignore them.

After all, why think scathing remarks when there was an Elizaveta naked on the bed? _Naked, bare, thin, and sallow-cheeked_, he couldn't help but think. He didn't _want_ to think it. Why would he? Mostly because then he would think about _why_ and _how_ she became that way, and how he would desperately want to throttle a certain Russian bastard for it, no matter his own circumstances, or what bloody results would come his people's way-

Then Hungary would let out a needy moan, pitched just a tinge too high to be natural, and he would realise that his hands had already done the talking, that things had gotten so mechanical that... That it was really just better not to think, and instead, just do it.

_This is what I wanted._ She _is what I wanted. No matter how fucked up-- Ha, pun-- the circumstances are_

--

"I'll be going," she whispered. Their faces were inches apart, his hands encircled around her waist, and he realised how exceptionally _wrong_ those words were. They weren't supposed to _be there_. She should have said something beautiful, something poetic, something which fit the situation with two naked people in a room, under the covers, after sex.

He wasn't remotely a romantic, but it _still felt so wrong_. He wanted ask her if she meant otherwise, _if she would mind meaning otherwise, please_? He really did, it was on the tip of his tongue.

"Alright."

He unclasped his hands from the small of her back, as she climbed up and out of the warm sheets and put on her clothes.

"I promise this won't happen again."

"Of course it won't, Eliz."

Hungary whipped around to glare at him for the quick reply, which Prussia responded to by raising his hands innocently. "It won't happen again, I agreed. No sarcasm intended."

She gave him another withering look, their eyes unintentionally locking. Elizaveta turned away.

"It won't," she reinforced, and Gilbert couldn't help but think that it sounded a hell of a lot like she was talking to herself more than him.

(Even if she constantly seemed to be on the brink of screaming Austria's name instead of his, he was happy that she was terrible at keeping her promises, )

--

And like before that meeting, it kept happening as he insinuated, after it.

There were variations. Sometimes she would arrive earlier than he, with her playing the part of the idiot in the rain, and he would watch her pale green eyes blink as the headlights shone right into them, as the light reflected off the drops of water in her brown hair, and think that it must be a downright sin for someone to look so beautiful.

And eventually, she would leave.

Sometimes they wouldn't have sex at all, and instead lie in bed together, alternating between barely-touching and holding each other. It was then that Gilbert would realise that he felt the most with Elizaveta resting her head on the crook of his shoulder.

And eventually, she would leave.

There was that one time that it didn't rain. The only one time, in those years of meeting, that it didn't rain. It had rained during his trip there, but stopped short before he entered the town. It felt like a miniature miracle; little less than a good omen. They'd gone to the inn.

And she left, for the last time.

--

She was at his door an hour after the news reached him. He walked to it lazily, expecting some citizens wanting to share their outrage with "their neighbour".

Gilbert stared at Elizaveta, slightly slack-jawed at her presence. He was in the mood for some swearing at the Russians' expense with his equally foul-mouthed neighbour (whom he had become quite nicely acquainted with, in the past few years or so: That wall seemed to become a common bonding point), not _her_.

"Austria's waiting," he tried, testing the waters.

Hungary looked up from her scuffed shoes, and looked right at him, full on, with the sort of hard determination and ferocity he hadn't seen in her for years. If he didn't know better, he'd have thought it had died in her.

"I know," she replied, stepping closer. Prussia almost took a step back at the sudden movement, but right after that, he was damn thankful that he didn't. Her lips pressed against his, a chaste kiss which was never quite shared in all of those rainy Wednesdays (bites, licks, nips and tongue, yes, but not _this_), and he couldn't help but think that_ this_ was what he'd been after.

"You've been waiting for longer," he could feel the words against his shoulders, more than hear them, reverberating through his skin.

And that was all he needed.

--

**Footnotes:**  
- This has been done to death in the fandom, so I'll just do a brief one. This all basically took part between 1961-1989, after the erection (and I will stop giggling like a girl when I say that) of the Berlin Wall.  
- On August 23rd 1989, Hungary removed her physical border defences which seperated her from Austria. It was quite the news, and that's when the last scene happened.  
- Yes. I know. It's cliche-full. Shut up, blame my herd of unoriginal plot-bunnies. I'll try to write something better, soon.


End file.
